Enchanted Air Read online

  In a neighbor’s dirt-floored,

  palm-thatched hut,

  I see how few objects

  some people own.

  Cots, chairs, a rough table,

  and a smooth, shiny saddle.

  Everything here is handmade,

  except for the silvery metal bit

  that spins

  and gleams

  in a leather bridle.

  No running water.

  No electricity.

  No car.

  Just a horse—I can see him

  through the open doorway,

  a dark-red bay with black legs,

  and a black tail and mane.

  I don’t have any way to know

  if he’s swift and heroic,

  but just the sight of a horse

  is enough to help me feel

  like my mind is soaring

  in midair, all four hooves

  racing across the light

  and dark

  sky.

  WINGS

  Mami is brave.

  Knowing how much

  I crave horsemanship skills,

  she timidly asks the neighbor

  if I can ride.

  The neighbor is generous, and also

  amused.

  He can’t believe that a girl

  from a country of cars

  would ever care

  about animals.

  Mad is older, so she gets the first turn,

  even though she has always claimed

  that dogs are her favorite,

  while I am the one who craves

  amazing horses.

  While my sister rides, I watch.

  It looks scary.

  Not easy—not smooth and graceful

  like the daring chase scenes

  in cowboy movies,

  or those adventurous chapters

  in The Black Stallion.

  When Mad finally finishes galloping

  all over the nearby fields and streets,

  she reins the sweaty horse to a halt

  and hops down casually so that I

  can climb up

  awkwardly.

  Why can’t I be slim and athletic,

  like a racehorse jockey

  or my sister?

  The horse endures

  my nervous efforts.

  I sit too far forward,

  and hold the reins

  too tightly, and clench

  my teeth, and clutch

  the saddle horn,

  first at a bumpy trot,

  then a rolling canter,

  and eventually,

  a rapid gallop

  that makes all my

  daydreams

  feel

  real!

  Airborne.

  And earthbound.

  At the same time.

  Four hooves in the sky.

  Then down again.

  Winged.

  SINGERS AND DANCERS

  That soaring ride on a borrowed horse

  was my life’s dream come true.

  Nothing else could ever be better,

  not even the ice cream that arrives

  in a mule-drawn cart.

  Coconut. Pineapple. Mamey.

  Tropical flavors. Colorful tastes.

  When the vendor sings in praise

  of the ice cream he sells,

  one of Mami’s teenage cousins

  goes twirling out onto the street,

  swirling her waist

  and shaking

  her

  hips.

  If we stay here on the island

  forever, will I grow up

  courageous enough

  to always ride a horse

  everywhere I go, and brave enough

  to dance in public every time I buy

  ice cream, candy, or fruit

  from one of los pregoneros,

  the singing vendors of Cuba,

  who walk up and down

  the streets all day,

  chanting

  to entrance

  dancing

  customers?

  FIESTAS/PARTIES

  My great-grandmother is livelier

  than any child I’ve ever met.

  Her house and garden are always

  bursting with uncles and cousins—

  bearded men and smooth-faced ones—

  soldiers, farmers, a doctor, a puppeteer,

  and enough neighbors to complete

  any bingo, poker, or dominó game.

  Unaccustomed to parties, I sit alone

  on the quiet porch,

  weaving strips of palm leaf

  into miniature hats that I wear

  on my fingers.

  If we stay in Cuba forever,

  will I learn how to chatter

  and laugh, like Mami’s

  noisy relatives?

  DOUBTS

  Mami is having

  some sort of problem

  with her passport.

  If she doesn’t receive an exit visa—

  permission to leave Cuba—

  and an entry visa—

  permission to reenter the United States—

  then we might not be allowed

  to fly home in time to meet Dad

  when he returns to California

  at the end of summer.

  Maybe this island is not

  a source of courage after all,

  because suddenly

  Mami looks terribly anxious

  instead of wonderfully brave.

  LA GUAGUA/THE BUS

  We ride a crowded guagua

  all the way to downtown La Habana,

  where there are government offices

  with answers for people

  who have complicated,

  two-country,

  mixed-family

  questions.

  La guagua only stops for old women,

  little girls, and pretty ladies like Mami.

  Men and boys have to run, leap, and grab

  any part of the bus they can catch.

  They have to hang on, while women

  and girls

  sit on the seats

  and relax.

  I’ve always envied boys, whose lives

  seem so much more adventurous,

  but the truth is that right now,

  I don’t really mind having a restful place

  beside a smudged window

  where I can press my nose

  against the glass,

  gaze out,

  and feel

  safe.

  EXPLORATION

  On certain mornings, Mami grows

  so busy with her passport troubles

  that Mad and I forget to worry,

  especially when all three of us

  are invited on day trips

  in Tío Pepe’s car.

  A beach where flying fish

  leap and soar.

  A jungle with enormous flowers

  that look like bright red

  lobster claws.

  Waterfalls and lagoons,

  quiet pools of swirling

  blue.

  Farms, villages, towns . . .

  this island is an endless adventure

  as we speed from place to place

  in a car. . . .

  So why am I still so envious

  every time I see a village child

  on horseback or riding

  in an oxcart?

  Some of the sights

  that Mami describes

  as dire poverty

  look like such

  luxurious wealth

  to a city girl

  who loves

  farms.

  TRAVELING TO MY MOTHER’S HOMETOWN

  We’re finally leaving La Habana

  behind!

  We’re on our way to Mami’s

  hometown of Trinidad de Cuba,

  on the
island’s south coast,

  where my parents met.

  It’s only half a day away,

  but even though I’ve been there before,

  it seems like a journey through centuries,

  slow and dreamlike, completely old,

  yet strangely new.

  As we pass sugarcane fields

  and banana plantations,

  everything turns emerald green,

  as if we’re headed toward Oz.

  But there will be no wizards

  in Mami’s hometown,

  just more relatives, and the house

  where she grew up, and the farm

  where both Abuelita

  and my great-grandma

  were born.

  The farm where I

  plan to turn into

  my real self.

  QUIET TIMES

  I feel like I’m home,

  even though this peaceful town

  isn’t my own.

  Everything is just as I remember

  from before the war.

  Palm trees and bell towers rise

  above rows of houses, each wall

  painted its own shade of fruit hue.

  Guava pink. Lime green.

  Pineapple yellow.

  A whole town just as quiet

  and colorful

  as a garden.

  Blue doves flutter from nests

  on the red tile roofs.

  Horsemen lead goats

  along cobblestone lanes.

  We stay in a house

  where I don’t remember all the names

  of Mami’s relatives, but I do recall

  the comfort of cool tile floors

  on bare feet.

  Immediately, old folks start scolding me

  for ignoring the luxury

  of shoes.

  Mami explains that in Cuba

  there are worms that can creep in

  through the soles of your feet

  and then eat their way up

  to your heart.

  How can any place

  so peaceful

  be so dangerous?

  TROPICAL WINDOWS

  In this centuries-old house,

  each floor-to-ceiling window

  is truly an opening—no glass,

  just twisted wrought iron bars

  that let the sea breeze flow in

  like a friendly spirit.

  At night, fireflies blink inside rooms,

  and big, pale green luna moths float

  like graceful wisps of moonlight.

  In the morning, all those night creatures

  vanish, replaced by cousins and neighbors

  who peer in through the barred windows

  to greet me and chat.

  When Tío Darío brings sugarcane

  from the farm, I chew the sweet stems,

  absorbing a flavor that tastes

  like beams of sunlight.

  Is it okay to pretend

  that everything will always be easy?

  No passport troubles for Mami.

  No courage questions for me.

  No bullets.

  No worms.

  No death.

  Just open windows, hot sunlight,

  and winged creatures that fly

  in and out.

  LA SIESTA/THE NAP

  After a big lunch of yellow rice

  and black beans, all the grown-ups

  fall asleep in rocking chairs.

  Children are expected to rest

  at siesta hour, but Mad and I know

  that this is our best chance

  to explore.

  The central patio has fruit trees

  and flowers to study, and the walls

  display intriguing old black-and-white

  photos of ancestors, wide-eyed pictures

  that make me feel

  just as drowsy

  as a grown-up,

  all filled up

  with years.

  LOST IN TRANSLATION

  One day, we walk along the cobblestones

  to visit a sick relative who is so old

  that I’m surprised by her strength

  as she pinches my arm and sighs,

  ¡Ay, que gordita! How chubby.

  I know that I’m a tiny bit pudgy,

  but being called fatty by a grown-up

  makes me cry so long and so hard

  that all Mami’s efforts to explain

  are useless.

  I don’t care if plump is a compliment

  in Cuba. I can’t stand the sight of this old

  skinny, sick woman, who envies anyone

  healthy enough to gain weight.

  Why can’t an insult contain only

  one meaning, so that I can hate her,

  even if she might be dying?

  ESCAPE

  Living in between two ways

  of speaking

  and hearing

  makes me feel as divided

  as the gaps between

  languages.

  At least we’re finally

  on our way to the farm,

  where there will be more animals

  than people, and I won’t have to struggle

  to understand

  old folks.

  As we bump along a muddy track

  in Tío Darío’s battered jeep, I inhale

  the scent of roadside flowers

  that grow tall and weedy,

  rooted in mud

  the color of blood.

  Red soil.

  Green hills.

  White cows.

  Horses of so many shades

  that the colors can’t be

  counted.

  Everything looks just as wild and free

  as I’ve half-remembered

  and half-imagined.

  It’s as if my other self has been here

  all along—

  the invisible twin

  who never left this island

  and never

  will.

  GUAJIROS/FARMERS

  The shower is a bucket.

  The bathroom is an outhouse.

  Dinner is a piglet—cute and squealing,

  until one of the older cousins

  has to slit its throat and dig a pit

  and roast the meat

  in a nest of stinky garlic

  and sour orange juice,

  on a bed of slippery

  green banana leaves,

  underground,

  just like

  a grave.

  Maybe I’m not brave enough

  to be a real farm girl

  after all.

  SEPARATION

  Mami is leaving us here.

  It will be my first time spending

  a whole night far away from her.

  She says she’s going to see

  more relatives, and visit a beach

  and a beautiful cave.

  I can’t help but wonder

  if there’s also something mysterious

  that has to be asked and answered

  in one of those government offices

  where powerful strangers

  make decisions about the passports

  of people who belong to mixed-up,

  two-country, complicated

  families.

  EL RODEO/THE ROUNDUP

  With Mami gone, Mad and I are eager

  to help with farm chores,

  but we don’t like helping the women,

  who do nothing interesting—

  just cook, sew, sweep, and wipe

  the noses and bottoms of babies.

  We want to ride with the boy cousins,

  rounding up white cows each evening,

  so that they can be milked

  in the morning.

  Mad is allowed to help with el rodeo,

  because she’s older and a better rider,

  but I have to wait my
turn.

  Tío Darío promises that there will be plenty

  of other summers when I can ride, rope,

  and be brave, like a boy.

  WAITING MY TURN

  That night, I sleep

  in the farmhouse,

  listening to owls,

  mosquitoes,

  and cows.

  Listening

  to horses.

  My future.

  THE MILKING HOUR

  Dawn on the farm means rising

  before the sun to rush outdoors

  into a corral where men and older boys

  milk the cows, while cats prowl,

  waiting for their chance to sip

  spilled droplets.

  I hold a clear glass under an udder,

  letting it catch a creamy stream

  of warm froth

  that tastes

  like moonlight.

  By the end of next summer,

  I’ll be older.

  Maybe by then, I’ll finally be allowed

  to learn the magic

  of milking.

  RITMO/RHYTHM

  Mad has decided to catch a vulture,

  the biggest bird she can find.

  She is so determined, and so inventive,

  that by stringing together a rickety trap

  of ropes and sticks, she creates

  a puzzling structure that just might

  be clever enough to trick a buzzard,

  once the trap’s baited with leftover pork

  from supper.

  Mad and I used to do everything together,

  but now I need a project all my own,

  so I roam the green fields,

  finding bones.

  The skull of a wild boar.

  The jawbone of a mule.

  Older cousins show me

  how to shake the mule’s quijada,

  to make the blunt teeth

  rattle.

  Guitars.

  Drums.

  Gourds.

  Sticks.

  A cow bell.

  A washboard.

  Pretty soon, we have

  a whole orchestra.

  On Cuban farms, even death

  can turn into

  music.

  NEVER ENDING

  Up there, the law does not reach,

  a secretive cousin whispers,

  pointing toward the jungled peaks

  of tall green mountains.

  The war isn’t over after all.

  Some of the revolutionaries

  have turned into

  counterrevolutionaries.

  Men who fought together

  now fight against one another.

  What if the battles

  go on and on

  forever?